


No Place Like Home

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Homelessness, M/M, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5266058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their life is no place like home . . . a living-Hell neither can escape. Until they enter the Oxford Exchange Tea Shoppe. . . .</p><p>Thanks to BadSkippy for inspiring this with his wonderful Tea For Two: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5162672.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tea At Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5162672) by [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/pseuds/badskippy). 



> Notes/Warnings: None.

The sign above the tea shop read: _Oxford Exchange Tea Shoppe_.

 

Inside, people queued up to the counter and sat on almost all of the many available flat surfaces made for sitting. There were bookshelves filled with books lining the walls and even a few shelves that seemed to have board games on them. Even just a glance through the enormous picture window was enough to make a body feel welcome and at ease.

 

_Something I’ll wager neither of us have felt in a very long time. . . . ._

 

“Uncle Bilbo?”

 

Distracted from his reverie—from a brief, but ever more frequent stroll down Memory Lane—by his nephew’s voice, William Robert Baggins automatically turned on his most kind and reassuring smile (made less reassuring by Will coughing violently, painfully through it) and turned to look at the boy whose gloved hand rested so trustingly in his own. “Yes, love?”

 

And poor wee Frodo, looked guilty and winced, swallowing. “Can we go in, please?” he asked so softly, that Will barely heard him. Frodo licked his lips and braved what he must expect to be censure or some sort of negative response, his large, vivid blue eyes—the hallmark of the Baggins line, a hallmark that Will, with his round hazel eyes . . . _Took_ eyes . . . had not inherited—brimming not with tears, but with hope.

 

Will’s heart, already broken, was ground into a coarse powder by that look. He reached up with his free hand to stroke the boy’s cold, soft cheek. Bloody London winters. “Of course, love. Do you need to use the loo while we’re in there?”

 

“Nope!” Frodo’s sweet, innocent, anticipatory smile beamed out at Will, warming him in a way even the tea shop likely would not. He never truly got warm, these days. Not since the accident almost two years ago. . . .

 

Blinking away the sudden tears—did they ever get _less_ sudden? Or perhaps go away, altogether?—Will squeezed Frodo’s hand and marched them to the entrance to the Oxford Exchange Tea Shoppe.

 

*

 

Once inside, Frodo was, of course, agog at the light, the warmth, the different teas, coffees, beverages, mugs, and sundry for sale. At the peopled _busyness_ of the place. Seeing it outside a plate glass window was one thing. Being in the midst of it, Will had known, would be quite another.

 

Looking around, himself— and light-headed in the sudden change of temperature—he noticed the place was a mix of ethnicities, classes, and races, something that made him smile. One found a lot more of that in London, he was discovering, than . . . elsewhere.

 

“It smells so good in here, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo said so excitedly, but wistfully, that the coarse powder of Will’s heart was ground that much finer. “Like all the best scents in the world in one place!”

 

“That it does, Frodo, my lad. That it does.” And his heart made a decision his brain had no say in, speaking before thought could stop him. When another agonized coughing fit passed, Will tried on a smile that he knew Frodo could see tremoring. “Would you like a hot chocolate? With mint?”

 

Frodo’s eyes widened and lit up like Christmas. Mint hot chocolate was his favorite beverage ever, beating out Kool-Aid and Lilt by a wide margin. He probably hadn’t had it since—but no, Will wasn’t going to go there now. Maybe later, when Frodo was asleep, curled up in Will’s arms while Will kept watch throughout the night. But not now. Not when there was a bit of happiness to be had.

 

“Wow, can I _really_ have a hot chocolate, Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked, again, so hopefully, it ground the powder a little finer, still. “I mean, I know we don’t—that there isn’t a lot of money—”

 

“Oh, never you mind the money, lad, there’s more than enough for your hot chocolate, with enough left over for a scone, if you’d like! And plenty more besides, so don’t you worry!” Will said grandly, covering his mouth briefly and gritting his teeth against the cough. Against the way the shop wanted to revolve and lurch like the contents of a snowglobe. Against what felt like a burning hole high in his right lung.

 

“Really?” Frodo’s look of solemn self-denial was melting under the onslaught of hot chocolate _and_ a scone—a feast, compared to what they’d eaten lately . . . men’s shelter-dinners and not much else—and the boy was wavering like a slender tree in a hurricane wind.

 

Of course, it didn’t even occur to him that his “Uncle Bilbo” was lying, and that this might be their last bit of money. But then, it wasn’t supposed to occur to an eight-year-old that his guardian was about to spend their last bit of folding cash on something other than the absolutely necessary. It shouldn’t occur to an eight-year-old nor should it matter.

 

“Oh, Uncle Bilbo! I haven’t had a scone since we went to live with Aunt Lobelia and Uncle Otho!” the boy chirruped, a cloud passing over his face for a brief moment before he was grinning and practically dragging Will to the counter. Rather, to the queue five people deep that lead to the counter. “And I haven’t had a hot chocolate since before Mummy and Daddy. . . .”

 

Frodo trailed off, and the cloud passing across his face _this time_ decided to sit and stay a spell.

 

Kneeling in front of the boy, Will tweaked Frodo’s nose and pretended to examine the acquired nose. “Hmm,” he murmured, stifling another cough and holding up his thumb between his first two fingers in the well-lit atmosphere. “Quite a lovely specimen,” he went on, turning his hand this way and that. Then he made a face. “Rather a few too many bogies in there, however. . . .”

 

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo exclaimed, blushing and laughing. Will grinned and pretended to put the “nose” back on Frodo’s face. “Perhaps while we’re in here, we’ll get extra napkins so that poor nose is no longer beset by so many big, awful bogies! Green and yellow, they were!”

 

Giggling, Frodo covered his face and shook his head. “You’re morgifying me in public!” he said, and Will chuckled. “Morgifying (mortifying)” was Frodo’s favorite new word. One of many, actually. The boy was smarter than even his vocabulary—and pronunciation—suggested.

 

But he was _laughing_ , and that was a good sign. A _rare_ , but good sign. Frodo was such a naturally solemn child, and the deaths of his parents had not made him less so. Though Will had, for the past two years, done his best to keep his nephew’s mind off of the accident, and the loss. Not that it was terribly _tough_ , what with their circumstances since the accident having changed so dramatically. It had been easy enough, in a strange way, to shunt aside the memories and the grief for them both, with their worries in the _now_. And so, poor Frodo had never really had a safe space to grieve Prim and Drogo.

 

Now wasn’t really that space, either. Nor the right time. When that right time was, Will didn’t know. But surely it would never be while Will could barely keep their bodies and souls together. Jobs that paid decently and under the table were scarce, even in London, if one didn’t know the right people. Will, of course, had not known the right people upon first arriving in London with Frodo in tow. But he’d managed to get one of those jobs in a fancy hotel, as a night desk clerk. That had lasted all of three weeks, until the night manager got . . . handsy, and once rebuffed, had sacked Will and black-listed him.

 

Now, Will couldn’t even get a job in the lowest sweatshops London had to offer.

 

 _This is Hell,_ Will had thought frequently, with dull resignation that he didn’t dare show Frodo. It only came out when Frodo was asleep or otherwise engaged. Will would take his walks down Memory Lane, cough, and try not to cry. _This is Hell and we are trapped here forever. And it’s all my fault. . . ._

Will stood up and hugged his nephew close, one arm wrapped around the boy’s small, wiry shoulders, and ignored the way his own stomach growled at the scents filling the Oxford Exchange. He also ignored the way the heat of the place—so _intense_ , compared to the cold outside—made his eyes swim in their sockets and his head spin. He coughed a few more times, hard enough that nearby heads turned. Coloring, he ignored the unwanted attention and the way the entire shop seemed to . . . grey out somewhat more than briefly, and when it was their turn to be served, stepped up to the counter to place their order.

 

Behind the counter was a sturdy boy of thirteen or fourteen, with golden blond hair and merry blue eyes. He smiled at Will and at Frodo. “Good afternoon, sirs! What can I get for you, on this chilly day?”

 

Frodo bounced under Will’s arm and Will smiled, opening his mouth to speak. So he was mildly _morgified_ when what came out was a cough more painful than the others, and longer lasting, too. In fact, it wouldn’t stop, and even as Will turned away from the counter and the counter-boy’s worried gaze, he could hear Frodo asking: “Uncle Bilbo? Are you alright? Uncle Bilbo?”

 

But even Frodo’s high, clear voice suddenly grew fuzzy for Will as he swayed and the room spun. He grabbed a napkin from the counter and quickly—though not, with the attention on him, discreetly—coughed into it till his chest was on fire, his ribs ached, and his mouth tasted of copper. Thankfully the napkin was thick, and when Will was done coughing up, he quickly crumpled the napkin, but not before he saw the flash of bright red in it. Swaying, he closed his eyes on the spinning room, bracing himself against the sharp, unavoidable pain of just breathing.

 

 _Oh, bother . . . not_ this _again. . . ._

 

Shoving the napkin in his pocket, he meant to turn to the counter-boy and apologize profusely, but his stomach gave one pitiful grumble and he swooned, crumpling to his knees as the world greyed out once more.

 

“ _MUM_!” the counter-boy called. “Come quick! Somebody’s fainting!”

 

 _I am_ not _fainting!_ Will started to say, but his mouth was filled with wet, prickly wool. Darkness gulped his vision like a fine meal on a hungry night, and the last thing Will Baggins heard before all sense fled, was the murmur of the crowd and Frodo’s pleading voice.

 

_"Uncle Bilbo, please don't die! Please don't die!"_

 

TBC


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis Durinson's been here before . . . or has she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: None.

Dis Durinson watched her older brother pace around her office like a caged orangutan. It wasn’t the first time.

 

“And then, so help me, Enright suggested—in front of the patient, no less—that we skip blithely over all the other possible remedies for her condition, such as reduced calorie intake and/or exercise, that we jump straight to major surgery!” Thorin ground out angrily, turning to pace from Dis’ bookshelf, past the small sofa, back to the opposite wall, which had photographs of the family, Fili’s best essays and articles for the school newspaper, and Kili’s best drawings.

 

Thorin paused at one of the drawings in particular: one Kili had drawn of his Uncle Frerin. Not from memory, of course, but from photos he’d seen. It was an eerily good likeness, down to the quirked half-smile and the air of amusement that seemed to surround him, hovering at cheeks and lips.

 

Reaching out, Thorin brushed a finger across the drawing, his scowl lightening, changing slowly to a look of wistful fondness. The same look he got on his face more and more when he looked at Fili, who was turning into a finer-boned version of his late uncle . . . from the golden hair, to the blue eyes, to the air of amusement that seemed to attend him. . . .

 

Thorin actually smiled a little, his big, blunt finger tracing Frerin’s half-smile. “Bloody Engright.”

 

Not the first time Thorin had said _that_.

 

Dis sat back in her butter-soft, leather office chair—it and the sofa were her first and only self-indulgences since the tea shop had gone into the black—crossing her legs and settling in for a bit. Heavens knew when Thorin was off on one of his rants, time had a way of passing. Not that Dis minded. She’d been on her feet all day, as usual, and even her comfiest pair of tennies and the rubber mats liberally spread around behind the counter couldn’t completely mitigate the ache of being on one’s feet and going non-stop for nearly ten hours.

 

“You know,” she mused thoughtfully. Thorin turned to look at her, his eyes narrowing as if he knew he wasn’t going to like or agree with whatever she said next. Dis managed not to smile in the face of Thorin’s prescience. “You talk more about Enright than you do about anyone else in your life. Is there something you want to let me in on?”

 

“Let you in on?” Thorin’s right eyebrow cocked at a forbidding angle.

 

“Well,” Dis purred, reaching up to untie her ponytail, finger-comb her long, sable hair, then gathering and re-tying it . . . basically drawing out the suspense because she could. Thorin was one of those people who didn’t like it when someone knew—or claimed to know something about him that he didn’t already know about himself. Dis and Frerin had, once upon a childhood, teased Thorin mercilessly, using that realization. It’d been great fun for them both, and for all the things Thorin knew or guessed about himself, this facet was one thing of which he seemed entirely unaware. Like irony, it seemed to go right over his head.

 

_For the smartest man I know, dear brother, you can be so willfully dense_ , she thought smugly, then chastised herself. It was hardly _Thorin’s_ fault he’d inherited their father’s temperament, and she and Frerin had inherited their grandfather, Thror’s. Thorin had been mostly raised by their father, before the breakdown—and partially after. But Dis and Frerin had spent more time with Thror. Had lived with him after their mother died, while Thorin had chosen to stay with Thrain.

 

Thorin’s childhood had been nothing but responsibility and taking care of others. Dis and Frerin’s had been an _actual childhood_ , filled with laughter, and carefree.

 

Now, she let her smile show just a little. “All I’m saying is that for someone you can’t stand, you talk about Dr. Enright far too much.” Dis let her own eyebrows shoot up and Thorin rolled his eyes.

 

“That’s because he’s jackass of the first water! It never ceases to amaze me that the man passed his boards. If I talk about him excessively, it’s because I have to vent about the fact that while the rest of the hospital staff is fairly competent, he’s allowed to flit about the place like he’s Gregory House, M.D., and ‘solve’ problems for patients that aren’t even his own!” Thorin was gritting his teeth once more. But instead of taking up pacing again, he yanked out the other chair, across the desk from Dis’, and threw himself in it with a heavy sigh that immediately turned into a yawn.

 

“Bloody hell,” he said, blinking briefly starry eyes as he scrubbed his face with huge, pale, hairy hands. He let his head hang back, baring a jaw and throat covered in several days’ worth of stubble. And his aquamarine scrubs were rumpled beyond all hope of professionalism.

 

“When was the last time you had a shower, a meal, and a good night’s sleep?” Dis asked, frowning, now. Thorin snorted, and sat up, still rubbing his face. He had greyish hollows under his dark blue eyes.

 

“Does splashing my face at the water fountain, a handful of stale Maltesers this afternoon, and nodding off while driving here count?”

 

“No,” Dis said firmly, standing up, meaning to get her brother a cuppa and a scone—something savory, as Thorin was one of those odd, benighted people who _didn’t care for sweets,_ Maltesers aside. “Those certainly do _not_ count. I’m getting you something to eat, then you’re going upstairs and sleeping in the guestroom tonight. I don’t want you driving to your flat like thi—”

 

“No, no,” Thorin said, chuckling, grabbing Dis’ hand as she started past him, to the door. He pulled her back toward him and stood, himself. “I’m fine, really. Fine enough to make it back to my flat and nuke something that’s vaguely food-like.”

 

“Sounds delicious,” Dis deadpanned, freeing her hand and cupping Thorin’s face in it. When she smiled, he smiled, too, and she stood on her toes to lean her forehead against his. “Listen, you, you can’t keep burning the candle at both ends, like this. You’re running yourself into the ground and no one should know that better than you . . . _Dr. Durinson_.”

 

“I’m not running myself into the ground, Dis. I’m just . . . filling up all the extra time I’ve had since. . . .” Thorin trailed off and turned his face away. “Anyway, it’s not like I’m a social butterfly. I choose to use my time _wisely_ , working and advancing my career and _helping people_. Time that I’d otherwise only spend moping or watching telly or—or—”

 

“Meeting people? Making friends? Dating?” Dis suggested. Thorin scoffed.

 

“Have you _met_ me before?” he asked snarkily. Dis sighed.

 

“Didn’t you tell me that the reason He Who Shall Not Be Named packed his shit and left was because he claimed you worked too much and didn’t spend enough time with him?”

 

Thorin turned away from her, rubbing his face again. “Fine. _Yes_. He called me a heartless workaholic, I believe . . . he also claimed I had the sex drive of a wooden spoon. Posh, indolent bastard.”

 

“Well, I’m not his biggest fan, either, but he happened to be right about you working too hard and not spending enough time with your loved ones. And him.” Dis put her hands on her brother’s broad shoulders, and kneaded and squeezed. He groaned as knots and tense muscles almost instantly began to release. Dis smiled to herself. She’d always had the touch, when it came to this sort of thing. Their grandfather had sworn she’d been a masseuse in a past life. “If you let your life be eaten up by your work, you’ll never make any friends other than those planks you knew at school.”

 

Thorin chuckled. “Not _all_ my friends were planks, Dis. You liked one of them, well enough.”

 

“That’s neither here nor there,” Dis sniffed. Now—at the end of a long day, when she was too tired to defend herself against the tangled onslaught of emotions brought about by thinking of Fili and Kili’s father—was not the time to think about that particular friend of Thorin’s. “That one with the ridiculous hair was a no-account, and the one with the ridiculous mustache was just—irritating!”

 

“Only because they were competing with each other and Billy to be noticed by _you_ , dear sister.” Thorin chuckled again, then let out another relieved groan as Dis’ kneading picked up, became stronger and deeper. “They always _did_ play second fiddle to Bill. Interesting aside, though,” he added, sounding amused. “Nori and Bofur have been together for nine years, now. Can you believe it?”

 

“Hmph. And how’s life in Wales treating them?”

 

“Well, last I heard, Bofur loves Cardiff and Nori says it’s starting to grow on him like a—”

 

“ _MUM! Come quick! Somebody’s fainting!_ ” Fili’s voice called from the front, and they both started, then looked at each other.

 

“Did he say. . . ?” Dis began, wide-eyed.

 

“. . . someone’s fainting? Yes, yes he did,” Thorin said calmly, already moving to the door. When he opened it, Dis could hear a child sobbing, and saying: “Uncle Bilbo, please don’t die! _Please_ don’t die!”

 

“Oh, no!” Closing and locking the door to her office out of habit, Dis then hurried down the hall—Thorin was already out in the common area, leaving behind the faint scents of fabric softener and hand sanitizer . . . before those scents were swallowed by the aroma of teas, coffees, and baked goods—and burst into the common area, elbowing her way past gawking, murmuring customers.

 

The first thing she saw, when she got to the center of everyone’s attention was Thorin’s broad back as he kneeled on the floor, his head pressed to a prone, still young man’s chest in a listening pose and two fingers of his left hand pressed to a pale neck as he muttered under his breath.

 

Off to the side and being held back by Fili, the sobbing child—skin and bones, and small, for what she guessed was his age of seven or eight—sniffed and continued to mumble, his big blue eyes wide and shining with continually falling tears: “Please don’t die . . . you’re all I have . . . _please_ , God, don’t let him die like Mummy and Daddy. . . .”

 

“Shh . . . it’ll be alright,” Fili said softly, holding the boy tight, though whatever struggles he may have put up before, he was mostly quiescent, now. “You’ll see. My uncle’s the best doctor in London. Maybe in the _world_. Your uncle’ll be fine.”

 

Just then, the prone, still young man began to cough rackingly and move weakly, moaning. Thorin sat up, still holding the young man’s hand, and brushed untidy, almost-auburn fringe away from the young man’s waxy-pale brow.

 

“You’re alright, mate. You’re alright,” Thorin said soothingly, calmly, with that imperturbable bedside manner that still had a way of shocking Dis, and probably anyone who knew her brusque, square-dealing brother. “You’ve had a bit of a lie-down, but you’ll be fine.”

 

“Whah? Whah?” the young man breathed, opening round, wide hazel eyes that were clouded with confusion and dazed. “Where—where am I? Where’s—where’s Frodo?”

 

“I’m here, Uncle Bilbo!” the sobbing child called from the haven of Fili’s arms. The prone young man, _Bilbo_ , tried to bolt up, but Thorin held him down easily.

 

“Not so fast, mate. You’ll want to take it nice and slow, right? Right.” And having said that, Thorin helped Bilbo slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y sit up. When he was upright, and held that way by Thorin, Bilbo looked around dazedly, his eyes lighting up when he saw Frodo, his face creasing in a sweet, joyous smile.

 

“There’s my lad,” he said, swaying a little, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he tipped over against Thorin, who held him stiffly for a moment, then relaxed, putting his arm hesitantly around Bilbo, who laughed uncertainly. “Oh, my . . . I feel so woozy. . . .”

 

Thorin looked up and around, his eyes falling on Dis, who shrugged.

 

“Can we use your office?” he asked quietly, stroking Bilbo’s hair, without seeming to realize he was doing so.

 

“Of course,” Dis said, then blinked as Thorin quickly stood up with Bilbo in his arms. Putting on her Shop Owner-hat, Dis nodded to Eithne, who was standing at the front of the crowd directly across from Dis, her towel and tray in hand. “You have the counter.”

 

“Yes, Dis.”

 

“And Fili . . . er, Frodo, is it?” When both boys nodded, Dis smiled, hoping it was convincing. “You’ll stay out here until Frodo’s uncle is on his feet, alright? And Fili can make you both hot chocolates, alright?”

 

Fili nodded and so, after a moment, did Frodo, though his eyes were following Thorin and Bilbo through the parted crowd and down the hall.

 

Remembering that she had the key to the office, Dis hurried after them.

 

TBC


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor is IN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: None.

“Here, let me.”

 

Thorin strode down the hall, the sick young man in his arms, and Dis slipped past him, hurrying to the office door. She unlocked it and had it open just in time for Thorin—who hadn’t slowed down—to stride right in.

 

Thorin gently placed the ailing _Bilbo_ on Dis’ couch and knelt next to it. Bilbo’s brilliant hazel eyes were open, but dazed and still quite confused. He watched Thorin with something like amazement, something like awe.

 

When he smiled, a weak, yet lovely thing that lit up his pale, but angelic face, Thorin couldn’t help but return it. It was such an uncomplicated expression of joy, despite what had to be considerable pain, if any of Thorin’s surmises were correct.

 

 _Gonna have to do a sputum sample for culture and sensitivity, Stat CXR—2 view,_ he thought by rote, almost absently, reaching up to brush his finger down Bilbo’s soft, but clammy cheek without realizing he was going to do so. The young man leaned into his touch with a tired, rattling, heavy sigh. _Could be TB, blood clot, bronchitis, systemic Lupus, cystic fibrosis, internal injuries, pulmonary edema, pneumonia, anything . . . fuck, let’s just bloody hope it’s bronchitis, and nothing more._

 

“Am I . . . am I going to die?” Bilbo asked with a reserve of calm Thorin still found remarkable in seriously ill patients, even after all his years in medicine. “Am I dying?”

 

“Not if we take proper care of you, Bilbo,” Thorin murmured reassuringly. “Which I promise we’ll do. Now, tell me, how long have you been ill?”

 

Bilbo’s sweet smile turned wry. “That I’ve noticed? Two weeks . . . maybe three,” he replied, with a pause for a hard, racking cough. It didn’t sound good, but then, coughing rarely did, in Thorin’s informed opinion.

 

“Hmm. And have you been coughing up blood at all?”

 

Blushing, Bilbo nodded once. “Yes. Several times.”

 

“I see . . . and for how long have you been coughing up blood?”

 

“Just started . . . a couple days ago.”

 

Frowning, Thorin stopped acting like a worried lover and started acting like a doctor: he left off stroking Bilbo’s cheek and checked his pulse . . . thready and fast, but not overly worrisome. Still strong, despite his illness.

 

Then Thorin put his hand on the young man’s clammy forehead. It was definitely, after even a few seconds of contact, far too warm. “And you’ve got a fever. For how long have you had this fever?”

 

Bilbo sighed again, coughed again, and moaned. “Off and on, for a couple of days but it got high yesterday. . . .”

 

“Yesterday?”

 

“Yes . . . then I took some paracetamol and it came down,” he added hopefully.

 

 _Heaven help me with patients who think paracetamol or running it under a cold tap solves everything,_ Thorin thought tiredly. “And has your boy, Frodo, shown any symptoms at all?”

 

“Oh, goodness, no!” Bilbo seemed horrified. “I’d _never_ pass such a terrible cold on to Frodo if I could help it!”

 

Thorin smiled limply. He knew that when it came to URIs, even with the best of ordinary precautions, Bilbo would _not_ have been able to help it. Nothing for it but to get the both of them to hospital immediately. “Well, that’s very good of you,” he said gently, taking Bilbo’s hand and squeezing it. Unlike his forehead, it was rather chilly.

 

“So . . . _am_ I dying, doctor?” Bilbo asked, his brow furrowing. Thorin’s smile turned genuine.

 

“No, Bilbo. You’re not dying. But you’re very ill. Now, I can only guess, without having run further tests yet, but I’m thinking you had a mild URI—er, upper respiratory infection—that spread to your lungs after it wasn’t properly treated . . . I imagine you _didn’t_ seek treatment for it. . . ?”

 

Bilbo colored again. “No . . . I didn’t.”

 

And Thorin knew, from the weighty, guilt-ridden answer not to pursue that particular line of inquiry any further. For the moment. Sighing, himself. “I fear that time and exposure may have turned that mild URI into pneumonia—”

 

“Oh, God!” Bilbo _really was_ horrified, now, and a tear escaped from each lucent eye, to wet the sides of his face. Thorin was quick to squeeze Bilbo’s hand and hush the other man.

 

“Pneumonia _is_ treatable, Bilbo, but you need to rest and you need _medication_. We must do testing as well,” Thorin mumbled, more to himself than to Bilbo, who was starting to look more alarmed than terrified.

 

“Testing? What do you mean testing?”

 

“Well, once we get you to hospital—Dis, dial 999 for me, would you?—we’ll have to run some tests to confirm it _is_ , in fact, pneumonia. But from there, we can get you fixed up in a trice. Good as new, yes?”

 

Bilbo’s wide hazel eyes grew wider and suddenly quite frightened again, in a way that even contemplating his own possible demise hadn’t made him. He watched Dis cross the room from the doorway, to her desk, and reach for the phone.

 

“No—no, I’m sure I’m fine. I don’t need to go to hospital—” he began, trying to sit up. Thorin didn’t even have to hold him down this time. The coughing kept Bilbo from sitting up all the way, and he groaned, flopping weakly back to the couch. “All I need is a—a bit of cough syrup and some rest, and I’ll be fine, Dr.—er. . . .”

 

“Durinson. Thorin Durinson,” Thorin supplied automatically. Then less automatically: “But you can call me Thorin.”

 

 _Why did I say that?_ he wondered the instant after he said it. _I_ never _tell my patients to call me by my first name. That’s all kinds of unprofessional._

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, almost smiling again, and the sound of his name in Bilbo’s markedly northern accent made Thorin want to grin. To cover that lapse, he cleared his throat and scowled.

 

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat again. “You’re not getting any better just laying on my sister’s couch coughing up your lungs. Dis.” Thorin nodded at his sister and she picked up the phone. Bilbo held out his hand.

 

“Wait—please—don’t!” He coughed again, seeming more irritated than pained by the coughing. “You can’t—if you do, it’ll . . . it’ll log us in the system and . . . they’ll know where to find us, and they’ll take Frodo from me!”

 

“Who’ll take Frodo from you?” Thorin asked quietly. Bilbo merely shook his head and looked away, closing his eyes on more tears.

 

“ _She’ll_ get him, and once she does, my sweet little boy’s life’ll be ruined!” Bilbo sobbed. “She’ll ruin him!”

 

“Who?” Dis asked softly, from right behind Thorin. “His mother?”

 

Bilbo shook his head. “Frodo’s mother is dead. So’s his father. I’m the only person he’s got that truly cares for him.” Burying his face in the back of the couch, he began to shake. He was sobbing even harder as he looked up briefly at Thorin. “But they won’t let me _keep_ him. Not when she’s got all those attorneys and all that money, and—and—she’ll say I’m evil and deviant! And I _ran_ —they’ll never let me keep Frodo because _I ran_!”

 

After this outburst, Bilbo turned back to the couch and buried his face in the cushion, weeping and coughing. Thorin and Dis exchanged a glance, then Thorin turned back to Bilbo, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Bilbo, mate—”

 

“And it’d serve me right, too, if they did! I’ve bollocksed it all up!” the younger man sobbed. “I promised them that if anything ever happened to them, I’d take care of Frodo, but look at how that’s turned out! No place to call home, lucky to have one meal a day, and he’s so bright I can barely keep up with him, scholastically . . . he needs a _real_ teacher. A _school_. I can’t give him anything but love and space to be himself.”

 

Bilbo looked at Thorin, his face heartbreaking in its misery and guilt. “I thought that might be enough. _That’s_ why I ran, you see? But it’s not, is it? Love is _never_ enough,” he whispered hoarsely.

 

Heart still breaking for this man he didn’t even know—and yes, for the poor boy drinking hot chocolate with Fili—Thorin reached out and brushed away Bilbo’s tears with his wide, flat thumb. More immediately took their place. “Sometimes it is. But when it’s not, we must take further steps to provide what is needed, _whatever_ is needed, yes?”

 

Bilbo nodded hesitantly, wearily, not meeting Thorin’s eyes.

 

“Well, right now, not only does Frodo need _you_ to be well, but he also needs to get tested to make sure _he_ doesn’t have pneumonia, as well.” Thorin tilted Bilbo’s face up so their eyes met. When they did, it hit him like a hammer to the soul how . . . beautiful Bilbo’s eyes were. How emotive and innocent, clear and bright, fringed by dark, damp, long lashes. If they were truly windows to the soul, Thorin knew, then sitting before him was the most beautiful soul in Creation. “I know you would never pass such an illness to Frodo on purpose, but if there’s a chance, even a _chance_ , that he could have accidentally contracted it from you . . . well, wouldn’t you want to know before _he_ starts coughing up blood, too?”

 

Bilbo’s eyes closed on more tears. “Oh, no, not my little Frodo—of course I’d want to know. And have him treated.” He shook his head. “Alright. Yes. We’ll go to hospital. But she’ll find us and she’ll take him from me.”

 

Frowning, Thorin met Dis’ eyes and she shrugged slightly. _Your call_ , that shrug said. But she certainly looked troubled.

 

“Bilbo . . . this . . . _she_ , you mention . . . does _she_ have legal guardianship over Frodo?” Thorin paused, trying to think of a more delicate way to phrase it. But he’d never been a delicate man. At least not when it came to speaking. “Bilbo . . . did you _kidnap_ Frodo from his legal guardian?”

 

Bilbo shook his head. “No, Thorin. Frodo is _my_ ward. It was what Prim and Drogo wanted in the event of their death. And it’s legally binding. But _she_ doesn’t care. She’ll get the courts to take him away.” Coughing again, harder than he had since waking up, Bilbo put both hands to his head. “So bloody _dizzy_ . . . and it hurts _so much_. . . .”

 

“All the more reason to get you to hospital immediately,” Thorin agreed, glancing at his sister and nodding. Dis went back to the phone and picked up the receiver. Bilbo watched with wide, scared eyes as she dialed 999, then passed the phone off to Thorin.

 

As he spoke to the dispatcher on the other end of the line, Thorin took Bilbo’s clammy hand again and squeezed it. When he handed the phone back to Dis to ring off, he looked at Bilbo and smiled. Bilbo returned it sadly.

 

“May I see Frodo, now?” he asked meekly.

 

“Of course,” Thorin said, looking over his shoulder at Dis. She nodded and left the office to get Frodo, leaving Thorin and Bilbo alone. The two men looked at each other, one set of eyes reassuring and solemn, the other worried and desperate.

 

“I can’t lose Frodo, Thorin,” Bilbo said quietly.

 

“I’ll make sure you don’t,” Thorin swore, meaning it with every fiber of his being. He _would_ do everything he could to keep boy and uncle together. “And I’ll make sure that from now on, you and Frodo will have a nice, clean place to stay and be safe, food whenever you want it, and the best schools available. And I won’t let _her_ get her hands on him. I promise.”

 

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he blinked away tears, swiping at them impatiently. “How can you promise me that, Thorin? You don’t know me—you don’t know _her_ —don’t know the resources she has—the people she can put in her pocket! You have no idea who you’re up against!”

 

Thorin pressed Bilbo’s hand up to his stubbled cheek and set his jaw. _Neither does_ she, he thought, making a mental note to speak to one of his cousins, about legal guardianship and the laws regarding them. They were, respectively a junior partner and senior partner in _Ironhill, Fundinson & Groinson_, Esq., one of the most prestigious law firms in the United Kingdom. If anyone _would_ know, Dwalin would. And if _he_ didn’t, _Balin_ would.

 

Out loud, he simply said: “Don’t worry, Bilbo. I’ll take care of you _and_ Frodo. I’ll keep you both safe from _her_. From _anyone_ that tries to hurt you or separate you,” he further promised, turning Bilbo’s hand slightly to kiss the damp, cool palm.

 

Bilbo sniffled and searched Thorin’s eyes for a long moment before nodding, a small smile of relief curving his full, chapped lips. “I believe you, Thorin,” he said wonderingly.

 

“So do I, D-Dr. Thorin.”

 

Starting, both Thorin and Bilbo looked around to see Frodo and Dis standing in the doorway. Frodo’s reddened blue gaze was ticking between Thorin and Bilbo, settling finally on Bilbo, who opened his arms. Frodo darted around Thorin where he knelt and threw himself into Bilbo’s arms.

 

Dis, meanwhile, was staring at Thorin with raised eyebrows. Thorin blushed for no reason, and looked away, at Bilbo and Frodo, who were still locked in a wordless embrace.

 

“I’ll go wait for the ambulance out front,” Dis finally said, sotto-voiced. Then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

 

Thorin barely noticed her go. He only had eyes for the small drama in front of him. For the sick, homeless young man and his child who’d somehow— _somehow_ —become Thorin’s responsibility.

 

TBC


End file.
